


The sleuth and the werewolf

by Hotaru_Tomoe



Series: The English job [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Halloweenlock 2016, M/M, PWP, Rough Sex, Seriously almost not plot at all, Sherlock is a curious prick, Werewolf John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 18:15:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8411587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotaru_Tomoe/pseuds/Hotaru_Tomoe
Summary: It's almost Halloween.John is strangely edgy and Sherlock wants to know why. John warns Sherlock to let it go, but obviously he doesn't listen, determined to find out what John hides.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Un beta-ed, all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

“Sherlock, I’ll be away around the end of the month for one week... Sherlock, do you hear me?”  
The sleuth was reclined on the sofa, lost in his Mind Palace or, more probably, not interested in a such mundane thing like a travel. And usually John would haven’t mind, but that damn period of the year was different. And after all, what was he asking for? Just one minute of attention, it wasn’t that much.  
“Sherlock!” he snapped “Answer me, Christ!”  
The burst of anger had his effect and now John had the full attention of his flatmate. Maybe even too much of it: Sherlock stood up and went closer to him.  
“You’re edgy, nervous.”  
“Yes, ‘cause you never listen: I’ll be away for one week and I don’t want you to complain I didn’t tell you, just because you weren’t listening.”  
Sherlock tilted his head and mused: “But that’s what I always do and usually you’re simply resigned, so why are you so nervous now?”  
Great, trust Sherlock to be more interested in that rather than in why and where he was going.  
“It’s a bad day.”  
“You’ve just woken up, nothing happened to cause such-”  
“Leave it” John hissed through gritted teeth, but he immediately realized his mistake: asking Sherlock to let go something was like asking him to dig deeper.  
“But-”  
“I said leave it.”  
John gripped his mug till his knuckles turned white: it wasn’t the right period of the year to test his patience, but probably his strange behaviour was just an interesting puzzle for Sherlock. He didn’t feel the danger. He couldn't.  
He knew nothing.  
And he should keep in knowing nothing of _that_.  
John looked at the calendar hung on the side of the fridge: on November 1st it’d be over. He could do this, like every year.  
“And where are you going?”  
“New Zeland.”  
“To visit your old army mate?”  
“Er, yes.”  
John was surprised that Sherlock remembered him, he was sure he would delete such mundane detail.  
Sherlock nodded and then looked at John intensely again, and the doctor felt uneasy under his scrutiny.  
“I’m going to work.”  
“Did you shave this morning?”  
“Uh, yes. Why?”  
“You seem still… scruffy.”  
John passed a hand on his jaw: yes, it was bristly.  
“Time to change my razor, I suppose. See you later, Sherlock.”

 

It was starting earlier that year: sometimes it happened, when the full moon was at the end of the month. Not bad, anyway: before it began, before it ended. He should have immediately asked for his holidays to Sarah.  
As he passed the window of a store, he saw two children with their noses glued to the window, watching costumes and black and orange decorations.  
"I can’t wait for Halloween" one of them exclaimed.  
"Yes me too."  
Instead John couldn't wait for that period to end.

 

John believed he had planned everything in detail: he would leave Baker Street in time to catch a plane to New Zealand and had filled the suitcase with suitable clothes for the weather on the other side of the world. It would be all right, as always.  
Only, he hadn’t reckoned with Sherlock’s curiosity: in the last few days it seemed to him to live constantly under a magnifying glass. But his friend hadn’t say anything about it, so maybe he was paranoid. It wasn’t a surprise: as the days went by, everything became more intense for him, smells, sounds, colours. No wonder that he was nervous and restless.

The day of the departure, John zipped his jacket and grabbed the suitcase.  
"Right, try not to blow up the flat while I'm away, would you?"  
"Tell me John," Sherlock said, "Will you arrive your friend's house without warning? Quite rude, I would say.”  
"What?"  
"I have checked your laptop: you two didn’t speak via Skype in more than three months, or have exchanged any email, so how he’s supposed to know about your journey?"  
“You checked… why?” John barked in anger.  
“Because you’re not telling me the truth and I want to know why.”  
His eyes were sparkling and focussed, like the ones of a cat pointing a prey. But curiosity could kill the cat for real, this time.  
“I can’t believe you… no, sod it! It’s you, I can totally believe that you have such a great disrespect for my privacy, you cock!”  
Sherlock ignored the insult and sighed, frustrated. “But John, I just want-”  
“NO! I’ve already said it, Sherlock: leave it. I mean it.” John’s shoulders sagged “If you're really my friend, this time you’ll leave it.”  
This did the trick: Sherlock was stunned into silence, not expecting him to do leverage on their friendship.  
“Leave it” John said a last time, and then he left, hoping that the consulting detective would follow his advice. He kept on looking back and changed two cabs before getting out at the train station, he was edgy and alert for all the journey to his final destination, looking suspiciously at the other passengers on the train, afraid to recognize a disguised sleuth among them. But he was sure Sherlock wasn’t there, as he didn’t smell him. One of the few advantages of his imminent _change_.

He got off the train when it was dark, but instead of looking for a room in the inn of the village, he set off on a tiny path that led into the bush, where there was the stone hut of his grand-grandfather that had hosted generations of Watson in that period of year. The hut was kilometers away from any village, but he wasn’t tired, he walked easily and never stumbled, despite the darkness, he oriented without problems in the midst of dense trees and the unchanging landscape, a sign that his human nature was already giving way to the beast.

 

Of course Sherlock wasn’t leaving it. Like, at all.  
John was hiding something from him, and Sherlock was intrigued: it wasn’t a life or death matter, so he wasn’t worried for his best friend. No, it was something like a struggle, but he didn’t understand what was about (yet). Not a new girlfriend, a gambling debt or a problem at work with some nasty patient, Harry was sober since February, and there weren’t any money issues.  
So why John was so determined to keep him in the dark? He had even brought up their friendship, as if Sherlock curiosity could destroy it. What nonsense! Nothing would change between them, even if Sherlock had discovered that John was a serial killer.  
He didn’t follow him immediately: the former soldier seemed particularly vigilant those days and Sherlock wanted him to deflate his anger, not to anger him further.  
That wasn’t a problem: the GPS device he put into John’s phone would allow him to know always where he was (it was only for security issues, not that Sherlock was so curious to know where John was at all times of the day. Maybe), so right now it was time for some old school investigation.

 

Two day after he had found a pattern not only in John’s absences from work, but also in those of his father. Sherlock suspected he would have find the same pattern also about Watson grandfather, but the older documents were only on a paper file, not on a server (what a bother). However, the data in his possession was sufficient. And terribly fascinating.  
For some reason, every year at the end of October, John was away for about a week. The reasons he adduced were always different: he called sick, he had to attend his sister, a vague and unknown family commitment, a trip. Probably all lies.  
Sherlock hadn’t noticed it until now, because they were extremely trivial events, not worthy of attention, considered separately. But now, watched in their entirety, they made out a side of John that was unknown to him.  
Where was he going? What was he doing? And above all, why? Because the father had held the same bizarre behavior, it was certainly a family business, so Harry would have hardly said something to him.  
While he was thinking, the news on TV transmitted the interview with a couple of guys, whose car was off the road in an uninhabited area on the border between England and Scotland. The boys swore that they saw a monster that night and it was responsible for their accident.  
"It crossed the road in front of us! It's its fault that we ended up in the ditch."  
"And how did it look like?" the journalist asked.  
"Scary" the other guy said, "It was huge, more than two meters tall, it had a thick brown fur and growled."  
"It was a werewolf, I’m telling you."  
Immediately after, the reporter interviewed a local policeman, who was skeptical and quite amused.  
"The guys have probably seen a big deer and got scared. Maybe they had also drink too much, but that's all. Werewolves don’t exist."  
Back at the studio, even the anchorman was  embarrassed about that absurd news and rushed to move on.  
Sherlock didn’t pay attention to the news, too focused on the mystery of John, but at the end of the day he hadn’t yet a solid hypothesis, so he decided to leave and follow him.  
The GPS signaled that John was in an area between England and Scotland, apparently within a wood.  
What was he doing in such remote zone?  
The mystery was more and more intricate, and he couldn't wait to unveil it.

 

Sherlock stopped the car, looked at the gps device and frowned: John was still kilometers away from there, but apparently the paved road ended there. Did John walk so far?  
He took a map and went into the inn: maybe the locals knew another road.  
At the bar a man was yelling something about sheeps with a police officer, who was trying to flatter him.  
"Now, George…”  
"No nows! I want to know what happened to my sheep! An animal doesn't disappear into thin air. I bet those kids did it! They are always hanging around out here, doing anything all day long."  
"Or maybe" the bartender quipped "it was the werewolf those two guys in the car saw the other night."  
"Please don’t spread more rumors" the officer pleaded "As if there weren’t already enough weirdos around here for Halloween."  
Sherlock approached the counter and asked if there was a road that led through the woods.  
"No paved roads, only one hiking path. But it’s very far away, you will arrive there late at night."  
"So it's best if I go now."  
"But what are you going to do in a place like that?" the officer asked, "To my knowledge there’s nothing there."  
"It’s what I’ll find out" Sherlock replied with an enigmatic smile.  
"Speaking of weirdos" the bartender said, once Sherlock was gone.

 

Darkness fell quickly, and Sherlock was not even half way, when he heard a noise in front of him and stopped.  
A wild boar?  
A Fox?  
He illuminated a group of bushes with the torch: he saw nothing, but heard a low growl.  
A wolf? There were wolves in that area of the country? He didn’t know, he had deleted the information.  
He heard footsteps moving sideways, but they were too heavy to be those of a wolf.  
He remembered the rumors about the werewolf, but it was impossible: it was probably just a masked dude who liked to scare people.  
Or not?  
The growl came again, and he wasn’t so sure anymore. He gripped stronger the flashlight and walked.  
"Who is there?"  
A large creature emerged from the darkness: it was wolfish but also human, the hair was a complicated shade of blonde, brown and silver, and his eyes were dark blue.  
He would have recognized him always, in any form.  
"J-John?" Sherlock asked, dropping the torch, which broke and died.  
He panicked, stepped back, tripped over a protruding root and fell to the ground, and in an instant the werewolf was on him, holding his shoulders and growling menacingly.  
"John! John, it's me, Sherlock."  
The werewolf sniffed at him intently, then lifted his nose into the air and seemed to howl in frustration.  
Definitely John.  
"Do you understand me? Can you talk? What... oof!"  
Evidently werewolf John wasn’t going to listen to Sherlock questions. He lifted him from the ground with surprising ease, put him over his shoulder and ran off into the woods at a speed higher than that of any human being, nimbly dodging trees, and without stumbling even once.  
"Can you see in the dark, despite the absence of light?"  
The werewolf growled a warning, but Sherlock was too excited to notice and kept talking as if nothing had happened.  
"I take that in your body takes place a profound change at the genetic level, because usually your eyesight is not very good. Oh, don’t look at me like that, don’t you remember that time in London's sewers? Unless you fake it... nope, as you once said, no one can pretend all the time and- "  
This time werewolf John barked loud and it sounded just like a “Shut up, Sherlock!”

Shortly after, they reached the hut and the werewolf threw Sherlock unceremoniously on the floor.  
There was no electric power, but in the fireplace were burning embers of a fire, and the consulting detective saw John’s suitcase and cell phone on a chair, and a big mess of bones, flesh, hair and blood on the table.  
Well, mystery of the disappeared sheep resolved.  
"I hope that your immune system changed, too, because eating raw meat from an animal improperly slaughtered isn’t the best for your health. As a doctor you should know."  
Once he realized that the werewolf was John, Sherlock had accepted the fact with the usual rationality, and wasn’t frightened at all by him, at least until John grabbed a chair sending it to shatter on the other side of the room, and curled up on the floor, scratching the old boards with his claws.  
"Is it your way of telling me to shut up? I'm sorry I don’t understand, but I’m not accustomed to the language of the werewolves."  
The beast looked at him, as if to ask if he had a death wish, then he buried his muzzle under the paws and began to breathe very heavily, so much that Sherlock feared he felt ill.  
“J-John…?”  
And then something amazing happened: the werewolf shrank, fur and claws pulled back inside the body, and less than a minute later, John was curled up on the floor.  
"Wow, so you can control it!"  
"One thing," John said in a deadly voice, "I had asked you one thing: to leave it, to not follow me, but you couldn't restrain your damn curiosity."  
Now it was all over, his secret revealed, he would have to leave Baker Street, and-  
"Is it a family thing?" Sherlock asked, unperturbed, breaking his panic attack.  
"Uh… well, yes. It's like a curse that weighs on the Watson family for generations. We don’t even remember when it started. But it is like that, and there is no cure."  
That explained why a man of action as John, a soldier at heart, decided to be a doctor: to find a cure to his condition. "And does it happen every year?"  
"Yes,” John sighed “Every bloody year I have to free the beast; I can hold it for a while, but in the end it always has the upper hand. After about a week, everything goes back to normal. It always happens around Halloween. Ironic, isn’t it?"  
"I would say fascinating. It’s a bit like women’s period, in the end, heavy irritability included."  
In many years, John had never hear a comparison with his condition so funny and yet so bloody suitable, and despite the fear, the anger, and the frustration, he started to laugh. He couldn’t help it.  
After a few moments even Sherlock, with his low and vibrant laughter, joined him.  
And, in his state, that laugh had a strange effect on him, made him want to bend Sherlock on the table, take him and then keep him forever. Right, the danger was not yet past them, instinct was strong in him right now, much more than rationality.  
John raised from the floor and took a deep breath.  
"Shall I leave Baker Street?"  
Also Sherlock stood up and frowned: "No, why?"  
"Must I say it loudly?"  
"I don't care. In fact, you should have tell me when we met, I would have helped you to cover up."  
John barked a bitter laugh.  
"Oh, of course: 'John Watson, nice to meet you, I'm a doctor, a blogger and occasionally a werewolf'."  
"Why not?" Sherlock insisted, not grasping the point.  
“I transform into a werewolf, Sherlock! A fucking beast that slaughter animals alive! Most people would be scared to death.”  
Sherlock sniffed, indignant. “I’m not most people and you’re always John. I can’t believe you thought this would affect our friendship.”  
That… that was something, for real. It made him feel warm inside, accepted.  
Even loved.  
No, that was a very dangerous train of thoughts, a train that John couldn’t follow, not in his current state.  
"You must go, anyway."  
"But John..."  
"I mean for now, until my wolf phase ends: I don't know how long I can stay in human form."  
"But it's freezing outside, and I lost the flashlight," Sherlock whined.  
"It’s dangerous for you to stay."  
"Nonsense: you hadn’t attacked me before, you will not attack me now."  
John turned to face the fireplace.  
"Damn it, Sherlock! I don’t feel like myself!"  
Only then Sherlock watched John carefully: yes, he was different from usual, but not in a negative way, as the doctor believed.  
John was human, but his nails were longer and sharp, the canines almost protruded from his lips, an unusual beard adorned his face, and even his muscles were more defined and pronounced; illuminated by the embers in the fireplace, John looked like a demi-god from a legend.  
It was like John at his finest.  
Magnificent.  
And no, he didn’t frighten him, even if he should.  
He felt attracted to John more than ever. Normally Sherlock kept dormant within him those feelings, but now, in front of that version of John, he couldn't.  
A smell came to John’s highly sensitive nostrils, but it wasn’t the rancid one of fear, it was the sweet, alluring smell of desire and it came directly from Sherlock.  
John turned slowly, facing him, and Sherlock's gaze fell on his crotch and his rapidly engorging cock, already leaking from the tip. It was huge and he wanted to grasp it in his hand, taste the clear fluid, feel it inside him.  
John followed Sherlock’s gaze and moaned, but then he shook his head: he knew he wasn’t indifferent to Sherlock, and he liked him, too: they had danced and tip-toed around the subject for a while by now, but in his current state John was afraid of losing control and hurt him.  
“Of all the times when… that’s the worst idea you could have. You should go now” John said, and was surprised by how his voice was deep and full of desire.  
Sherlock lifted his chin and looked at him.  
“I don’t think so.”  
“It’s a maddness.”  
“And here I am.”  
John walked slowly toward him, and Sherlock’s fragrance became increasingly intense, erotic, intoxicating. Christ, he wanted to take him, submit him, brand him with his scent and fluids!  
Sherlock felt his hesitation, and sighed.  
"First, in the woods, you could open my throat with your claws, but you did not. Stop it."  
"And what if I transform while... well, you know..."  
Sherlock tilted his head and put his mouth to his ear, chuckling: “That would be kinky.”  
“Oh for… sod it!”  
John finally snapped, grabbed Sherlock’s nape forcefully and guided his plump lips toward his. If he was so willing for it, John wouldn’t have pulled back.  
The kiss was heated, messy, explosive, John dominated it with ease and Sherlock let him, let John to invade his mouth, to bite his lips, to take whatever he wanted. His nimble hands started to explore John’s back and torso, outlining his muscles, testing the softness of the skin, then moved down toward the thick brown hair and the hot erection that throbbed in his hands.  
John moaned loudly, a desperate sound that resembled a sob, then grabbed Sherlock’ shirt and trousers and tore them bare hands, and the sound of ripped cloth seemed to increase his frenzy, while he pushed Sherlock on his stomach on the rough carpet in front of the fireplace.  
All his senses were amplified to the maximum, smell, hearing, vision, Sherlock was pliant and docile under his hands, and that was exciting and powerful, too, because he was usually so detached and far. But not now, when John was bending him to his desire.  
It was like a luxurious heaven and John had never been so excited in his entire life. He grabbed Sherlock’s perfect buttocks, and unceremoniously dived head right in the middle, intoxicated with the smell of Sherlock’s arousal, pushing hard the tongue inside him, tasting for the first time his more intimate flavour, so strong and spicy.  
Sherlock gasped, grabbing the edge of the carpet, and screamed in sensory overload: John, his perfect John, occupied every corner of his mind. His body sang and burned under the other man onslaught, his beard was a torture in such a delicate area, but at the same time it was divine, and Sherlock pushed against John’s face, allowing the tongue to penetrate deeper.  
But it wasn’t enough: he wanted John inside him and unconsciously rubbed himself on the carpet, in search of relief.  
John lifted his head and stopped the movement by pressing his hands on Sherlock’s hips.  
"I don't think so."  
"J-John, please, I need..."  
"You will come when I'll tell you," John growled "Not a second before."  
He wanted Sherlock to be his not only in body but also in mind. Maybe it was the werewolf in him talking, maybe that period only sharpened his natural possessiveness. It didn’t  matter.  
He threw Sherlock on his back and looked at his lithe, pale body, now covered in sweat, his face was pink, his hair a beautiful disaster, he was the one who reduced Sherlock to a sensual, wanton mess, and it was glorious.  
John licked the sour skin of his stomach, rubbing the beard on him, leaving the skin sensitive and reddened, then attacked the perfect neck, sucking and scraping it with his sharp teeth close to his pulsing point. It was so dangerous and so ecstatic, that Sherlock could come from that alone, but he forced himself to resist, for John. His hands found his testicles, full and heavy, fondled them, and John’s teeth bit harder on his throat.  
“John… John” he pleaded, grabbing the base of his cock.  
“Yes… Christ, yes!” John sat abruptly on his heel, mad with desire to bury himself inside Sherlock, to feel his delicious heat surrounding him; he squeezed his cock making it leak even more and used the precome to hastily prepare Sherlock, two fingers, then three and then he couldn't wait anymore, so he lubed himself with his own fluids and pushed the head against his hole, and when it breached in, he almost came on the spot, and bit down hard on his lower lip to stop: it was too early, he wanted to took delight in Sherlock’s body, long and fully.  
Sherlock scrambled with his hands on the rug, then gripped John by the shoulders, his only anchor in a sea of maddening sensations, pain and pleasure, burn and ecstasy; his neglected penis twitched against his abdomen and finally John took pity on him and and touched it, while he kept on pushing, pushing, pushing until he was balls deep inside him.  
They looked into each other's eyes for a long moment and shared a heated kiss, then John's mouth curled into a sly smile and the former soldier sat back abruptly, dragging Sherlock with him and impaling him on his throbbing cock, making him shivering and crying wildly.  
“Now” John said simply, and Sherlock came all over their stomach, his face contorted with pleasure, a vision so erotic that John lost the last shreds of self-control, and Rocked hard and fast inside him.  
“Mine, mine!” he growled, and when he came, it was with a deep throat howl.  
It had been so intense, that Sherlock was heavily sleepy soon after and, for once, he couldn’t think of anything more smart to say than "yes, John", and fell asleep naked on the rug.

 

When he woke up, some hours later, the sky was bright; he was sore and his body was covered in rug and beard burns, but a huge werewolf was half draped over him. In the end he had unveiled John’s final mystery, he was the only one to know him so deeply now, they bond was stronger than ever, and it was worth some burns.  
Sherlock stretched luxuriously in the werewolf grip and smiled.  
"Well John, I really hope your libido will not vanish, once you'll be back fully in human form."  
Something, in the eyes of the beast, seem to say "wait and see."


End file.
